


Catechesis

by Vivian



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blasphemy, Cardinal Mairon Sforza, Explicit Sexual Content, I stole a lot from The Borgias, M/M, POV Multiple, Papacy AU, Pope Melkor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angelic blonde curls frame his face, smooth and delicate. Refined. Such vanity. The curl of his long lashes, the crook of his brow and oh the bow of his lips. They part for him now. Melkor places the host on his tongue. The cardinal looks up. Honey coloured eyes. And Melkor knows he is no angel, no servant of God, but a creature of <i>vice</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catechesis

**I.**

 

The bells chime. They call to prayer.

Olibanum hangs in the air, cold and thick, filling Mairon's lungs as the hymns fill his mouth, pour from his lips. Far carry their voices. Aloft into the heights of St. Peter's. Caressing marble. Lifeless saints with feverish eyes. And before him the Holy Father. So radiant is he. Tall he stands, adorned with brocade and gold. Like a lightning bolt from the skies, anointed by God himself. The sharpness of his features, the aloofness of his gaze. And the curl of his thin lips. Mairon shudders as he has never before. He is moved. Struck down. With awe. Reverence. Blasphemy.

 

**II.**

 

Melkor descends the steps of the papal throne. The cardinals kneel before him, their red hats bowed in submission. Faithless and treacherous. They are spiders, each of them, scheming, weaving lies and intrigues. Yet he has his boot on their necks and he knows no mercy. He will mould them, maim them. And they will obey for his wrath is more deadly than that of the Lord's. He smiles. Places the first host on the tongue of the kneeling cardinal. _E nomine patri et filii et spiritus sancti._

He continues until he comes to the new cardinal. Barely a man. Angelic blonde curls frame his face, smooth and delicate. Refined. Such vanity. The curl of his long lashes, the crook of his brow and oh the bow of his lips. They part for him now. Melkor places the host on his tongue. The cardinal looks up. Honey coloured eyes. And Melkor knows he is no angel, no servant of God, but a creature of _vice_.

 

**III.**

 

The audience hall is filled with whispers. Red velvet glints in the cool twilight. The college of cardinals murmur into each other's ears. Amongst them Mairon sits quietly, observing. He has not come this far at his age without the art of intrigue. So he listens carefully.

When the pope enters all falls silent. The tail of his white brocade robe follows his stride. He appears to be carved out of the air. Out of another world. Another substance. He cannot be human, Mairon thinks. Such force lies in his presence, violent, primeval, blood and breath and _power_. Mairon's finger tremble. He clutches his robe. Raging pulse in his ears. He beholds him like the beginning and the end of time. All the chaos of life and the blackness of death. He knows he will never be able to look away again.

Mairon must speak with him in private. But he cannot set foot into those chambers without a gift. So he continues to listen. The cardinals are all scholars of debauchery and deception and at least one must slip. It needs only so little to bring them to fall. So Mairon sets his task to find the right one. He pays good coin to his servants, and to the cardinals' servants too, to find out that piece of knowledge that will open the papal doors for him.

 

**IV.**

 

It takes about a month until Mairon finds something substantial. Something he can prove. And when he does it is more than he thought it'd be.

Cardinal della Rovere and cardinal Orsini seem to have met with the family of Collona in private one too many times. All three have to bend their backs to the new pope, all three are used to more power than they currently wield. Insulted, stripped of parts of their land and treasure. Dangerous. The servants overheard talk of a new taster for the pope. A devoted Dominican monk. They overheard talk of canterella.

Mairon's heart beats fast as he sits in the carriage that takes him to the Vatican. His hands sweat. Nausea holds him in her gruesome clutch. He does not think when he rushes through the halls and corridors, does not hear the guard's protest nor the startled intake of breath when he throws open the doors to his Holiness' chambers. His Holiness turns towards him, glass of wine in hand. At the far end of the room the monk.

In a heartbeat Mairon is before the pope and pushes the crystal glass out of his hands. It shatters on the floor with a sound clear and sharp as morning.

 

The monk has the powder made of blister beetles on him when the guards search him. Mairon wants to slit his throat right there. A grim smile stretches his lips. Far worse awaits the monk than bleeding out.

After seven days on the rack the monk confesses to have had the order to poison the Holy Father. What they do to him afterwards he does not know. But it is enough of a warning for the families of Collona, Orsini and della Rovere.

 

On that same night Mairon is called to the papal chambers.

All thought falls away. Until he is no more than his raw, bloody, beating heart.

—Enter.

He does. The air is cool. Candles flicker in a nightly breeze. White curtains sway.

Everything is quiet. The doors are closed behind him. His skin is hot, feverish. He barely dares to breathe. And here he stands before him, his black hair free, framing his face, falling onto his shoulders. Mairon kneels. Kisses his ring. Heat pulses through his veins. Melkor, for he is not the pope now, looks at him.

—Rise, cardinal Sforza, he says and Mairon does.

—Your Eminence, Mairon breathes. He wants to throw himself at his feet, wants to lay himself bare and _worship_. Melkor smiles. It is a terrible thing to behold.

—Would you shed blood for us? Melkor asks.

—Haven't I already?

In a heartbeat Melkor is closer. Grips his chin roughly and tilts his face up.

—It is not your place to ask us questions. Melkor's voice is quiet, but Mairon trembles anyway.

—Yes, he says, I would shed blood for you. My own and that of your enemies.

—Good.

 

**V.**

 

Melkor watches him. Has him watched. He cannot take his eyes off him. 

Cardinal Sforza. Mairon. He is as deadly as he is beautiful. No man was ever created with a face like that. With skin like that, lips like that. As if he stepped out of some Greek myth, a sexless daimon. A sorceress or perhaps a siren. And like Odysseus he cannot keep from listening to his sweet, cunning voice when all else must fill their ears with wax. Except he does not tie himself to a mast, no trammels bind him. He is free to touch. Free to  _ take _ .

 

** VI. **

 

The private chapel is empty but for the organ master practising his songs. Mairon moves about quietly, a rosary clasped between his fingers. The dark, mighty sound of the organ. Melodies descending like souls driven to the fiery abysses of blackest hell. 

Steps behind him. He turns. A swirl of brocade and velvet. He is pressed against a column. 

—It is unwise to be alone, cardinal.

Mairon can barely breathe for the hand on his neck and the sight before his eyes. Melkor with a gaze as cold as winter in some far off land of ice. His fingers grip the fabric of Melkor's robe.

The beads of the rosary clatter to the floor.

 

The papal chamber is filled with the scent of olibanum.

Mairon disrobes slowly. Opening clasps and ties. Velvet falls in a pool to the floor. He takes off the heavy gold-chained cross and his ruby cardinal ring. Until naught adorns him but his bareness and his curls. Melkor watches him. Not a flicker of emotion on his face. He sits while Mairon stands.

Speak but one word…

Mairon steps closer. His fingers tremble but all else rejoices. May he strike him down, then so be it.

It would be just to be destroyed by these hands. Ravishing joy fills him at the thought. The danger excites him, kindles his arousal. Suddenly Melkor stands. He traces a finger over his collarbone. Mairon smiles at him, baring his teeth. Melkor growls and he pins him against the bedpost.

—Insolent, Melkor growls against Mairon's cheek. He can feel Melkor's hard arousal against his thigh and laughs, breathlessly, megalomania singing in his blood. A hand over his mouth.

Then he is thrown on the bed. A heartbeat later Melkor is above him. A beast come to devour. To tear apart and feast on flesh and drink blood like a lion. Mairon pulls him closer with his thighs around Melkor's hips. A moan pearls from Mairon's lips as he feels him. They look at each other. They kiss. It's ravenous, hungry. He tears at Melkor's clothes until they both lie naked. Skin against skin. Melkor's hands are rough and he toys with him as any predator with his pray. Moves him thus, and thus. And Mairon yields. Deliciously. They kiss and touch and move against each other.

Until Mairon sits on his hips and Melkor stills. Again Mairon bares his teeth. Melkor has not done this before. But Mairon is a good teacher of debauchery. There is oil and Mairon coats Melkor's fingers with it. He leans down to him and murmurs:

—Push them inside me. Slowly.

Melkor does. Mairon leads him through the preparation until he cannot bear it any longer.

Then he's on his back and Melkor between his thighs and he pushes in carefully. Mairon curves his spine. Claws at Melkor's back.

—More, he begs.

Melkor complies. He thrusts harder and Mairon just looks at him, feels him inside. He groans loudly and moves against him. A finger tracing his lips, dipping into his mouth, Mairon sucks. The hand wanders lower, fingers tighten around his throat.

—Yes, yes, he moans.

Then Melkor slips out of him, flips him onto his stomach and seizes his hair. He pushes his head down and thrusts into him hard. Mairon grabs the silken bedsheets.

 

**VII.**

 

The conference ends. The cardinals kiss Melkor's ring one after another. Mairon watches until it is his turn. Then he ascends the steps and kneels in front of him. Melkor does not smile, but looks at Mairon as he kisses his ring. Such reverence in his stance. Such filth on that tongue of his. Still he can hear him speak, I would you had me right there on the papal throne for the whole of the cardinal college to see.

 

They meet in his chambers. Before Melkor can speak a word Mairon goes down on his knees once more and sucks him off. Melkor cannot bear it for long. He bends him over his desk and has his way with him.

Afterwards they drink wine and eat Mont Blanc. He licks the whipped cream from Mairon's throat.

—Are you prepared to shed more blood for us? He murmurs against the wet skin before he bites into it gently.

—Yes, Mairon moans quietly.

—It is time we teach the Orsini, Collona and della Rovere a lesson in revenge, Melkor says.

 

**XIII.**

 

Mairon wakes as red dawn descends the phosphor skies. Light seeps through the curtains, the colour of blood. Painting Melkor as he slumbers. The harsh lines of his jaw, his nose, his high cheekbones. Such nobility in his features. Such want for violence. For power. And here he resides at the peak of the world, in the Eternal City. He stands above all, has risen above the horizon, a titan or a god. Mairon knows naught else has meaning. Knows there is only one holy thing in the whole world, and he lies in his arms. It's blasphemous, voracious, eternal. He will follow him to the end of the world. Something burns inside him, something chokes the air out of his lungs. Surrender. Addiction. Devotion. No-one will wrench the power out of Melkor's hands, Mairon will make sure of it. His fingers twitch when he thinks of violence. Of cruelty. He smiles widely and kisses Melkor's temple. They will rise above all. They will take everything. And leave nothing.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Father forgive me for I have sinned. I went to a Catholic private school and look what I have become.  
> This is partly canterville's fault whith whom I talked headcanons, partly fault of my own filthy imagination, partly purebloodied's fault. I took the liberty to include both mine AND canterville's headcanons. Most of the filth is hers/theirs. I hope you are proud Percy. <3
> 
> Guys, let me know if you liked this please!  
> This fic is unbeta'd.  
> Talk to me about sin on [tumblr](http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com) if you like.  
> 


End file.
